


Over the Gravity Walls

by detectivejigsaw



Series: Twangst Stories [18]
Category: Gravity Falls, Gravity Falls: Journal 3, Gravity Falls: Lost Legends, Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: And other GF characters in place of OTGW characters, Bill Cipher is a Jerk, Brother/Brother relationship, Gen, No Incest, Over the Garden Wall crossover, Possibly some surprises, Using original Pines twins, Weird little crossover in honor of October
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 03:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20941814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivejigsaw/pseuds/detectivejigsaw
Summary: Two lost brothers are wandering aimlessly through the forest of the Unknown, trying to figure out the way back home: one a slightly neurotic, intelligent one who keeps getting annoyed at his brother for screwing things up for him, the other a fun-loving goofball whose focus seems to revolve around his brother and his pet possum-wait, what?!A GF/OTGW crossover, just not the one most people expect.  Lots of creative liberties taken vis-a-vis ages of characters and a few other things, so kind of like Relativity Falls, but at the same time in a class by itself.  I hope.





	1. The Old Junkyard, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet our heroes, and they start their journey to find their way home, in the meantime learning the existence of the Beast with just one Eye.

_ Led through the mist, by the milk-light of moon, _

_ All that was lost is revealed, _

_ Our long bygone burdens, mere echoes of the spring, _

_ But where have we gone, and where shall we end? _

_ If dreams can’t come true, then why not pretend? _

* * *

Somewhere in the Unknown, a place lost in the annals of history, two boys (and a possum) wandered through a deep, dark woods. They were both about twelve years old, and looked even more alike than your average siblings: same curly brown hair, same round faces, same slightly big noses and scrawny little bodies. The primary difference was that one of them had glasses and an extra finger on each hand, and the other was missing a few teeth and carrying a possum with a knife tied to its back on his shoulder. Despite their differences in appearance, though, both of them were walking in identical stony silence, determinedly not looking at each other.

After about five minutes, though, the one with the glasses came to a sudden halt.

“Stanley? Where are we?”

Stanley (who usually went by Stan, but his brother tended towards formality a lot more than he did and often addressed him by his full name) shrugged. “In the woods.”

The other boy, Stanford (for whom Stan had a plethora of nicknames, but he usually went by Ford), gave him a withering look. “I know  _ that _ -”

“Then why’d you need to ask?”

“IF YOU WOULD LET ME FINISH!”

Ford waited for a second to make sure that Stan wasn’t about to make another smart alecky remark, and then went on, “How did we...get here? Last I remember, we were on the-on the boardwalk, down by the pier…”

He trailed off in thought.

Stan shrugged. His possum (who was named Shanklin) chittered and licked his ear.

Even though Stan was just as confused as his brother, this place was cool enough that he wasn’t worried just yet. All the trees seemed to be reaching for them with long, grasping fingers, and he could hear the sound of an owl hooting eerily somewhere nearby, and little red eyes were flickering all around them.

It was even better than the house of horrors attractions that got set up every Halloween on the boardwalk.

Besides, every second they spent here was another second they weren’t dealing with Pa.

Ford began pacing in a tiny circle, trying to figure out how they had wound up here. His instincts were telling him that something weird was going on, and weirdness was his big passion in life. He  _ needed _ to know what had happened-

Stan made an exasperated noise and walked away into the trees, and Ford realized that his brother had been trying to get his attention for some reason-probably because of the faint light that he could now see was in the direction Stan was headed, accompanied by a rhythmic chopping noise-and eventually given up to go investigate it himself. He realized further that he was being left alone in the dark creepy woods, and quickly hurried after his twin.

“Stanley!” he called, “What are you doing?! We shouldn’t separate from each other, it’s not safe-”

“I’m spying on the lumberjack, now ssh!” Stan hissed at him, pointing down at a clearing.

Ford followed his finger, and saw that indeed, there was an old man in dirty brown overalls and a big crooked hat, holding a lantern that emitted an eerie blue-white light. He was standing next to a large tree that was being chopped up by what looked like some kind of machine that had several axes attached to it. Disturbingly, the tree had a few holes in its trunk that were shaped so it looked kind of like an agonized face.

“Maybe we should ask him for help,” Stan suggested as they watched him gathering the chopped wood into a harness on the side of the machine.

“Oh yeah, trust the random stranger out in the woods who’s got some kind of weapon on hand, that’s a  _ great _ idea,” Ford muttered.

“Well I don’t see  _ you _ coming up with any brilliant plans!” Stan snapped back.

“Ssh!”

“You ssh!”

“You ssh!”

They punched each other in the arms, maybe a little harder than normal-and then were interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared somewhere above their heads.

* * *

“Hey, you’re two lost kids with no purpose in life, right?”

Both boys froze, and then slowly looked upwards.

Perched on a branch was a small bluebird, who was staring back at them with a more appraising gaze than you’d expect.

“...Did you just talk?” Stan asked.

The bluebird actually rolled its eyes. “No, dummy, the squirrels here are ventriloquists.  _ Yes _ I talked!”

“Whoa!” She-her voice sounded like a girl’s-now had their mutual undivided attention.

“This is so cool! Can all animals around here talk? Or are you some kind of enchanted human who got turned into a bird?” Ford excitedly dug around in his jacket for a notebook and pen, forgetting everything else.

Something about his question seemed to make the bird uncomfortable; she blinked and shuffled on her branch, and if she had a lip, she probably would have been biting it. Before she could answer, however, a voice behind them demanded, “What in tarnation are you kids doin’ out here?!”

Stan and Ford spun around, screaming in unison; unnoticed by them, the bird decided that now was a good time to exit.

It was the woodsman. Close up, the boys could see that he was unusually short for a grown-up, or at least so hunched over and spindly that he looked barely taller than them. He had a long white beard that for some reason had a piece of bandage stuck in it, and a pair of weird green glasses covering his eyes, and when he opened his mouth again, they saw that one of his teeth was made of gold.

“These woods ain’t no place for children! You two oughta scrap-doodle on outta here!” he scolded, putting the hand not holding the lantern on his hip.

“Uh-sorry, sir, but we’re lost!” Ford stammered. “We don’t know-we were just-”

Stan cut in. “We were looking for wild mushrooms, and lost track of time! Our parents told us to meet them over at this one moss-covered rock at the edge of the woods when we were finished, but we got lost trying to find the right one! They’re probably out looking for us right now, but if you just point us in the direction out of the woods we can probably call them and have them come pick us up!”

The woodsman blinked a few times, looking a little bewildered.

Ford groaned inwardly; Stan was good at coming up with somewhat-convincing lies at a moment’s notice, but there were times when they just ended up getting them into more trouble than they would have by telling the truth in the first place. On the other hand, he could see the logic behind this particular lie: Stan was trying to imply that they had people who were out looking for them, so that if this woodsman turned out to be a crazy psychopath or something maybe he would be hesitant to flat-out do away with them.

Finally the woodsman said, “Iffen ya called them, ya think they could hear ya from wherever they are? Sounds like they might be pretty durn far away.”

It was the boys’ turn to blink. “No,” Ford finally said, “he means on a phone.”

If anything, that seemed to make the woodsman more confused. Finally he just shrugged and grabbed the harness attached to his chopping machine, wrapping it around his shoulders.

“Ya can follow me if ya want; my place ain’t far, and it’s a lot safer’n here.”

After a second Stan and Ford looked at each other, shrugged, and followed after him, helping push the machine over big tree roots and rocks.

He seemed harmless enough, and genuinely concerned for their safety.

* * *

Unbeknownst to them, a pair of large yellow eyes were watching hungrily from the trees.


	2. The Old Junkyard, part 2

The woodsman’s place turned out to be in the middle of a junkyard on the edge of the forest. Broken carts and carriage wheels were strewn everywhere, along with heaps of metal and trash of all kinds, from broken dolls to what looked like some kind of automaton pterodactyl head. And smack dab in the middle of it all was a towering metal shack, with smoke pouring out of the chimney and sparks of electricity flickering out of slits that seemed to serve as windows, so it looked like some kind of mutant mad scientist’s castle.

Despite his concerns and suspicions, Ford found himself liking the old man (he introduced himself as Fiddleford, after they’d spend a few minutes walking). He seemed friendly enough, once you got past the eccentricity, and he was more than happy to talk about his inventions (the wood chopper was just the latest in a long series). He didn’t even act like Ford wouldn’t understand what he was talking about just because he was a child, happily explaining things like biomechanical brainwave generators and Tesla coils. It was...a very refreshing experience.

Fiddleford pushed aside the blanket that served as a doorway, letting them into the shack. As soon as he set foot inside, Ford was captivated.

The air was strewn with curls of copper wire and old-fashioned cables that were attached to the walls, all crackling with electricity. Piles of cogs and metal parts lay higgledy-piggledy about the floor, and there was an enormous workbench covered in tools.

Stan let out a loud, appreciative whistle. “This looks like our room that one time you tried to build a robot to clean it for us.”

Ford blushed, but Fiddleford’s eyes brightened. “You like buildin’ robots too?”

“Um-well, it was just the one time, and I lack most of the engineering knowledge necessary for that kind of project. I was mostly interested in seeing if I could create one that would gain sentience and maybe help protect me from bullies.”

Fiddleford laughed softly for a moment-but then he shook himself and began unloading the wood from his machine, and carrying it over to a sort of grinder in the corner.

“What’s that?” asked Stan, looking at it curiously. He absentmindedly removed the knife from Shanklin’s back, sticking it in a leather sheath his pocket. The possum seemed to appreciate being freed, and began giving his fur a generous bath.

Fiddleford let out a small sigh. “Ever’one’s got some kinda torch ta burn.” He patted the lantern which he’d set down at his side. “This one’s mine. I gotta keep it lit, usin’ only oil ground up from the wood o’ the edelwood trees that grow in that there forest.”

Ford picked up one of the branches and frowned at it curiously. “Edelwood? I’ve never heard of that. Why is that the only fuel source that will work for the lantern?”

“And why do you need to keep it lit all the time?” Stan asked, jabbing at it with a curious finger.

Even though part of Ford had been wanting to do just that, he gave his twin a scolding glare. At the same time, Fiddleford startled both of them when he quickly snatched the lantern away, cradling it against his chest.

“Don’t touch that!”

After a tense second he murmured softly, “It’s my burden ta bear.” Gently he stroked the side of it with his thumb, before hanging it on a hook above them and going back to sticking wood in the grinder.

“This guy sounds kinda loony,” Stan whispered in Ford’s ear. “Maybe we oughta leave before he decides to eat us or something.”

“He’s not gonna eat us!” Ford growled back. “And we have no idea where we are or how to get home, so the safest place to be right now is here!”

“How do you know he’s not?” Stan pointed to a nearby table, where there appeared to be the barbecued remains of a possum on a stick-taking care to avert Shanklin’s eyes from the gruesome sight. “If he’s hungry enough for _ that _, he’s probably hungry enough to eat something better that comes along, like two lost kids!”

“I ain’t deaf, ya know,” Fiddleford abruptly said; both boys jumped. He turned around, holding a glass bottle filled almost to the brim with yucky-looking black oil. “I ain’t never eaten nobody, an’ I don’t intend ta start now. The thing you two _ ought _ ta be afeard of out here is…” he gulped, “the Beast with Just One Eye.”

* * *

“...What Beast?” Ford finally asked, staring at him with his own eyes wide.

“The one that haunts the woods.” Fiddleford pointed a crooked finger at the doorway, where as if on cue the blanket flapped in the breeze and gave them a brief glimpse of the forest. “He loves preyin’ on lost souls, jes’ like you two.”

Despite how kooky he thought this guy was, Stan couldn’t help shivering just a little. He pretended that it was because he was cold, and shifted closer to the fire.

Fiddleford went back to grinding branches, and after a bit Ford offered to help, partly motivated by interest in learning how the machine worked.

Stan was soon bored, and he and Shanklin wandered outside to explore the junkyard. Part of him thought about letting Ford know where he was going, but it wasn’t like he was gonna be that far away. And just because his twin was fifteen minutes older didn’t mean he was his babysitter or anything; he didn’t have to check in with him.

To Stan’s disappointment, there was no treasure in the dump; not the gold-and-jewels variety anyway.

At least there was plenty of other cool stuff-another dead rat that had the skull showing; a steering wheel for a boat-helm, that’s what Ford said it was called-that he could totally imagine putting on the _ Stan O’War _, if they could figure out how to carry it home; a giant tooth (as in about five times Stan’s size-he wondered what kind of creature it had come from); a broken golf cart-looking thing; and best of all, a set of brass knuckles that looked like they would just about fit Stan’s hands.

He tried them on at once, not caring about how potentially unsanitary they were. Then, with a smirk of satisfaction at how well they fit, he stuffed them into his pants pockets.

He was just about to start digging through a pile of garbage that looked like it might have something good in it, when Shanklin let out a frightened hiss and scrambled off his shoulder, disappearing into the heap right in front of them.

“Hey! Where you going?!” Stan demanded, beginning to give chase. “Shanklin, come back! We still need to find you something cool!”

He was stopped in his tracks by a puff of hot breath on the back of his neck.

Slowly Stan turned around to see something big, and black, and bristly, and malevolent, standing just behind him.

“...Whoa,” he said after a second, “you got freaky eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way I figure it, Fiddleford is somewhere between the level of insanity he usually has in the show and his pre-memory gun clarity, hence the glasses and slightly more sane way of talking.  
Plus I just really liked the idea of him having a mad scientist castle in the middle of the junkyard.  
Hey, I'm a sucker for stuff like that, okay?


	3. The Old Junkyard, part 3

After about ten minutes Fiddleford said he’d “rustle up some grub” from his icebox out back (Ford got the feeling that wherever they were, the technology was not as advanced as at Glass Shard Beach-maybe they had somehow traveled back in time?), and would Ford mind making more oil by himself while he was gone? Ford was more than fine with that (he reveled in any opportunity to be treated like a grown-up), and happily continued working, setting the filled bottles of oil in a neat row next to the machine. A voice in the back of his mind pointed out that it might be a more constructive use of his time to try to figure out how they got here, and how to get back home, but, well, he needed more data before he could come to any further conclusions, and it was only fair to do a favor for the old man in return for helping them get out of the woods.

It was another five minutes before he turned to ask Stan for help with picking up an especially thick branch-and realized his brother was gone.

He groaned; whenever his twin got wanderlust it usually meant he was also getting into trouble.

“_ Stan _ley!” Ford let go of the branch and headed for the shack entrance-only to be nearly bowled over when the very brother he was looking for charged inside, hollering, “RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!!”

Ford was saved the trouble of asking what the matter was when he very quickly found out: an enormous black wild boar came charging through the wall, squealing with rage. As it shook pieces of metal and wood from its tusks he saw that blood appeared to be dripping from its snout, like someone had punched it really hard.

Ford nearly said a word that Stan had gotten his mouth washed out with soap for on at least two occasions. Instead, he screamed and dodged out of the way of the boar, looking frantically for some avenue of escape-and then his brother’s voice came from above his head, yelling, “Gimme your hand, Poindexter!”

Stan had temporarily forgotten his fear of heights and climbed like a monkey to the ceiling rafters, and now he was dangling by his legs and reaching down as far as he could.

It wasn’t until Ford had jumped up and grabbed the offered hands that he remembered his brother was probably physically incapable of pulling him up like this. Stan, however, did not let that stop him.

* * *

Somehow, by a combination of lifting and climbing and frantic scrambling both boys managed to get back up into the rafters without being gored, as the boar charged at the place where they had just been. Unfortunately, the spot was right in front of the grinding machine, and apparently this creature did not possess a very good braking system.

With another outraged squeal, it slammed right into the machine. It smashed into splinters, also causing the bottles to smash to the floor, oil splattering everywhere in a dangerous-looking slick. The boar was finally drawn up short by the rubble, and for a second it struggled to stay on its hooves. Then it regained its balance and turned itself around, surging to a spot right under the two boys.

In all his reading, Ford had never heard of a wild boar that was anything like this one, except perhaps for certain types of Japanese yokai. Not just because of its humongous size, which was frightening enough, but as he looked down at it, he realized that there was something very, very off about its eyes. They were bright yellow, and had slitted pupils, more like a cat than a pig. And they were glaring up at him with far more intelligence than any animal he’d ever seen besides the Jersey Devil (whose status as an animal was maybe somewhat debatable).

Ford stared down at it, transfixed.

Stan was much less subdued by the sight.

“Ya want some more?!” he challenged the beast. “There’s a lot more where that came from, ya razor-backed side of bacon!” He reached into his pocket and slid an actual pair of brass knuckles onto his hand, shaking his fist at the boar.

_ Where did he get brass knuckles his size? _

By way of response the boar charged at the wall and slammed its tusks into it.

The shack rocked precariously, and the boys screamed, grabbing onto the beam for dear life. Stan finally seemed to remember how high up they were, as his face turned deathly pale and he began to look seconds away from throwing up.

Just as the boar backed up and prepared to charge again, a bloodcurdling hollering resounded through the air, and Fiddleford came charging in himself, wielding a banjo (of all things) in his hands. Seemingly without so much as a flicker of fear he slammed it onto the monster’s head.

The banjo shattered upon impact, but it did seem to disorient the boar, who staggered back with another squeal. Then, before it could move, the old man had seized an ear in each hand, and pulled it around to face him.

“Say good night, Sally!” he crowed, before slamming their foreheads together with a loud _ crack _.

* * *

“...That was even better than the dead rat,” Stan said in awe as he and Ford climbed down, staring at the completely stunned animal.

Fiddleford rapped on his head with a proud grin. “Us McGuckets have got the hardest skulls in the wurl!”

“_ We _ McGuckets,” Ford corrected, ignoring the way Stan rolled his eyes at him.

By then, however, Fiddleford had stopped paying attention to either of them. He had turned...and was staring in horror at the wrecked remains of his machine and the puddles of oil.

“No! No no no no no no!” He collapsed to his knees in front of the mess, snatching a partly-intact bottle up and trying to scoop some of the oil into it.

“Way to go, knucklehead!” Ford hissed at his brother.

“What?!” Stan demanded. “This wasn’t _ my _ fault, it was that dumb pig’s!” He indicated the boar-who, to their surprise, appeared to be shrinking in size, and turning pink, until all that remained was a small pot bellied pig.

Stan’s mouth split in a wide grin as the pig sat up and blinked at them, grunting in a way that sounded almost questioning.

“Hey, now he’s potentially delicious!”

As if he could understand them, the pig squealed, and rushed out of the shack.

“What?” Stan called after him. “It’s the natural order of things!”

Ford was unappeased, as intrigued as he was about what had just happened. “You led that thing in here, and now everything’s destroyed!”

“Oh, _ so _rry,” was the snide reply, “next time I’ll watch where I’m going when I’m running for my life!”

“Boys!” Fiddleford said sternly, standing up with a third of a bottle of oil clutched in his hand. “There ain’t no point arguin’ and blamin’ ‘bout what happened. That critter was unner the influence o’ the Beast, an’ that ain’t nobody’s fault but his.”

Ford ignored the way Stan stuck his tongue out at him, and said, “We’re so sorry, sir-can we help fix your machine, maybe?”

Fiddleford considered for a moment, before shaking his head. “Nah, I think it’s better fer you ta make your way north, an’ look fer a town. Mebbe they can help find your folks; they must be powerful worried ‘bout you by now.”

“But-”

“Go on, git!” He didn’t seem angry with them, at least; he just set the precious oil next to the lantern, and then led them outside and gave them a satchel of food for the journey.

“Stay outta the woods iffen ya can,” he advised them. “That’s where the Beast likes ta strike most.”

“Thank you,” Ford said solemnly, offering a hand to shake. As he’d hoped, the old man didn’t so much as bat an eye at his extra finger, just shaking it and then Stanley’s. Ford really hoped he’d get to meet him again someday.

* * *

As they turned away from the junkyard, there was a chittering noise, and a familiar possum bounded into view.

“There you are!” Stan exclaimed happily, scooping Shanklin into his arms and scratching his ears. “Okay, we’re all ready to go, Sixer! Onwards and outwards!”

“Upwards.”

“Whatever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes the first episode.  
Hope you enjoyed.


	4. Night of the Pumpkin People, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys meet that bluebird again, as well as some most unusual townsfolk.

The two boys (and the possum) walked for hours through the darkness. By the time they finally stopped to rest, it was almost morning, and they ended up falling asleep on each other under a tree (Shanklin stood guard, according to Stan).

The boys woke up at around noon, ate some of the food Fiddleford had given them, and went back to walking.

“You sure this is north?” Stan finally asked; he’d started kicking rocks as he walked out of sheer boredom.

“ _ Yes _ , I’m sure,” Ford said, a little testily.

“I’m just saying, when that guy said we’d find a town north, I didn’t think it’d be this  _ far _ north.”

And then he looked up from the road and saw a signpost nailed to a tree: Pottsfield, 1 Mile.

Stan was about to tell Ford to wipe the smirk off his face, when he heard someone yell from close by, “Help! Somebody, help me please!”

* * *

“...You heard that too, right?” Stan asked.

Ford nodded, and they turned towards the direction of the yell.

“...Hello? Is someone there?” Ford called hesitantly.

“Over here!” This time they were able to identify it as coming from a large bush, just to the side of the path they were on.

No, they realized as they got close, it was not a talking bush; there was something rustling inside, which turned out to be that bluebird from earlier. She appeared to have her feet caught between some of the branches, and was struggling to get them loose.

“Oh, thank goodness, it’s you two!” she said when she realized they were there. “Look, I’m stuck. If you help me out of this I’ll owe you a favor.”

Ford leaned down. “Like a wish?”

“No, I’m not magical. What, you think just because I’m a talking bird I’m gonna have powers or something?”

Ford was about to point out that it wasn’t that weird of a conclusion for him to draw, when Stan interrupted. “You don’t look that stuck to me.”

The bluebird glared at him. “Oh, so you’re an expert, I take it?”

“I bet if you just wiggled your feet a little you wouldn’t have any trouble getting loose.” Stan’s tone was becoming laced with suspicion. “What’re you playing at?”

Ford, however, decided that his brother had been rude long enough and parted the branches, allowing the bird to get free (and maybe she did get out faster than he might have expected, but hey, he wasn’t a bird, who was he to judge how capable she was of maneuvering?).

“Thanks!” she said with a relieved sigh, flapping her way into the air above them. “So, you guys aren’t from around here, right?”

“Yeah,” Ford admitted.

“Well, for your favor, if you want I can take you to someone who might be able to help.” She spread her wings dramatically. “Gideon of the Pasture! He’s the most powerful wizard in the country-if anyone can help you get to wherever your home is, it’s him!”

To her visible surprise, this didn’t have quite the effect she’d been hoping: Stan let out a loud, unimpressed snort, and even Ford raised a skeptical eyebrow for a second, before looking thoughtful.

“A wizard? Yeah,  _ right _ ,” said Stan. “Thanks, lady, but I think we’ll pass.” He started to turn away.

“Hang on!” Ford objected, grabbing his sleeve. “Why is that harder to believe than a talking bird? He  _ could _ be a real wizard.”

“And Mom’s a real psychic.” Stan rolled his eyes. “Come  _ on _ , Poindexter. ‘Gideon of the Pasture’? Anyone with a title that corny is probably a fake.”

The indignation in Ford’s eyes started to fade. He had a point…

Then the bluebird said quickly, “He has a magical amulet that gives him his powers! I’ve seen it myself!”

_ That _ piqued Ford’s interest again.

Stan, however, was already heading back to the path. “Yeah, whatever, we need ta be led to a fake wizard by a lying bird like I need a hole in the head.”

Ford sighed and gave the bird an apologetic look. “I’m sorry about my brother, he’s not usually...okay, he kind of is. But-well, um-I’m Ford,” he concluded lamely, unable to make a good excuse for his brother’s behavior this time, even as he hurried after him.

“Nice to meet you. Name’s Wendy.” The bluebird came to a landing right on Ford’s head, nestling into his curls. He really hoped she had better bladder control than the seagulls in Glass Shard Beach. “What do you say just the two of us ditch your brother and go see Gideon, Ford?”

Ford gave her an annoyed frown (having to cross his eyes a little to do so). “As tempting as that sounds right now, I’m gonna have to say no. Partly because there’s no telling what kinda trouble Stan will get into on his own.”

Before Wendy could respond, from further up the road they heard Stan’s voice yell, “Hey, I can see the town!”

Followed by a loud crunching, squishing noise, and a yelp of disgust. “Ugh! Who leaves pumpkins lying in the middle of the road?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ideally, I would have started this ages ago so it could be finished in time for Halloween.  
However, life does not always work the way you think it should, so sorry.


	5. Night of the Pumpkin People, part 2

When Ford caught up to his brother, Stan was shaking pieces of what indeed looked like pumpkin off his shoe. He saw him and Wendy running up, and straightened, pointing.

“See? That’s probably Pottsfield down there.”

Even from this far away, it looked rather quaint. Just a small cluster of houses surrounded by what looked like cornfields; from up here there didn’t even seem to be any cars on the streets.

Ford, with a shrug, began making his way down after his brother; Wendy remained perched in his hair. He wondered if it felt like enough of a nest that she might try to lay an egg in it or something. It seemed like an unsafe thing to ask her, though.

The town seemed more or less deserted when they arrived in it. The streets were vacant of any signs of life, and the first house they peeked into had only a large turkey dozing on the table (they left before Ford could try to figure out if it was sentient like Wendy).

“Huh.” Ford stepped back out onto the side of the road, chewing his pen thoughtfully. “I wonder where everyone could-wait, what’s that?”

His ears had managed to pick up the sound of singing from somewhere close by. After a second, he realized it was from a barn in the very heart of the town.

They walked over to the barn and pulled open the door enough to peek inside; what they saw inside was even stranger than seeing a giant boar monster turning into a pig.

A bunch of people in old-fashioned clothes (Ford thought they kind of looked like pilgrims), with pumpkins for heads (and a few of them even had pumpkins for torsos, too), were dancing around a pole and singing, holding onto long ropes that were being wound around the pole. Some people in other parts of the barn were playing accompanying instruments, or bobbing for apples, or shucking corn.

Stan let out a horrified groan. “Oh no.”

Ford looked at him in confusion. “What’s the matter?”

Stan was backing away, eyes wide, hands raised in front of him protectively. “No cars here-people wearing weird old clothes and maypole dancing or whatever that’s called-music without drums or any kinda percussion-” his breath hitched- “this is a PIONEER DAY CELEBRATION!!!!”

And he turned and ran for his life.

* * *

Well, he tried to, anyway.

If he’d managed to get enough of a head start Ford would never have caught him. However, the older twin realized in time what Stan was about to do, and he managed to bring him down with a flying tackle.

Stan instantly began squirming and kicking, trying his hardest to get away. Ford just held on harder, trying to subdue him without his glasses getting broken or something.

“Stanley, stop it! Calm down!”

“I’m not gonna bob for apples or whatever! You can’t make me! Leggo!”

Wendy, who had flown off Ford’s head in shock when he charged after his brother, stared down at them in shock as they continued wrestling in the dirt.

“Dude, what’s  _ his _ problem?”

“He’s-intolerant of people who enjoy celebrating their town’s history-ow! Stan, stoppit!” He wrapped both arms around Stan’s middle, locking his fingers together.

“No-I’m-not!” Stan snarled, shoving at him ineffectively. “I just-don’t wanna be surrounded by-a buncha idiots who think-it’s cool ta live in a time before cars and modern plumbing!” A sudden triumphant light came into his eyes, and his hands were shoved into Ford’s armpits, tickling mercilessly.

Ford let go with a squawk, but when Stan shoved him off and got up to try to run again, he dived forward and grabbed him around the leg.

“We need to find a phone, Stanley!”

“They’re probably gonna pretend phones don’t exist!” Stan hollered, struggling to pry Ford’s fingers loose again.

“Then we can sneak into one of the houses and use it while they’re busy celebrating!”

Stan finally stopped struggling, and appeared to be giving the matter genuine thought for the first time. At last he sighed.

“Fine…”

Ford stood up and dusted himself off with a smug smile.

Stan just punched him in the arm and headed for the next house, grumbling under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan REALLY does not like Pioneer Day.  
I'm gonna say just for argument's (and continuity's) sake that they have it in Glass Shard Beach too, so just humor me, okay?


	6. Night of the Pumpkin People, part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for you guys, I'm making this chapter nice and long (comparatively), to make up for how inconsistent my posting has become. I hope you enjoy it.

There seemed to be no phones anywhere in Pottsfield. The boys checked in every house, and every street corner in case there was a pay phone somewhere, and discovered zilch.

“Man, these folks take Pioneer Day very seriously,” Stan grumbled at last, flopping down on the front steps of the house they’d just finished snooping in.

“I think it’s more than that,” Ford said, standing over him and scribbling excitedly on his notepad. He barely even seemed to notice that Wendy was taking a nap in his hair. “I don’t think they even  _ have _ telephones here.”

“What?!” Stan jerked his head up. “Do you mean like they’re Amish or something?!”

“Wha-no!” Ford made an exasperated noise. “I mean like I think we’ve traveled back in time!”

Despite Stan’s apparent distaste for everything in the era pre-electricity, when he heard this news his eyes widened with interest instead of terror.

“Really? Ya think so? Cool!” He sat up, staring around them with renewed interest.

“Yeah.” Ford gestured with the hand not holding the notepad. “There aren’t any telephone poles set up, or any kind of electronic devices anywhere except at Fiddleford’s house-” and even those things had been primitive at best- “and it would be more trouble than it was worth to just take them down for one simple holiday, so the more likely solution is that they were just never here to begin with. We must have-have gone through a wormhole or something that brought us here. This is incredible! A wormhole, in Glass Shard!”

Stan grinned in delight at his brother’s own enthusiasm...but then frowned. “In what time period did people dress up in pumpkin costumes?”

That took a little bit of the wind out of Ford’s sails.

“...Maybe we wound up in another dimension?” Stan suggested.

He brightened again. “Maybe. That’s not a bad thought, Stanley. It actually makes things even cooler-parallel dimensions exist! I wonder what their culture is like-or if maybe they’re not wearing costumes at all, maybe they are naturally pumpkin-faced people-”

And then, of course, trouble reared its ugly head.

It came in the form of a yell from down the street, which had them both jumping, startling Wendy awake.

“Wha-who-”

The scream was from a woman in a long gray dress who was on the doorstep of one of the houses they’d sneaked into, standing and pointing an accusing finger at them.

“Help! Help! Trespassers! Thieves!”

Instantly Ford shot Stan a Look; his brother smiled sheepishly...before he leaped to his feet, snatching up Shanklin into his arms, and ran for it.

* * *

This time, Ford didn’t try to stop him; he just high-tailed it after him without even checking to see if they were being pursued; Wendy was forced to fly after them. They raced down the street, between a row of houses, and straight into the nearest cornfield.

“What did you steal?!” Ford hissed angrily as soon as they were sufficiently out of sight, and stopped to catch their breath.

“Not a lot,” Stan mumbled, digging into his pockets and finally producing a tiny windup clock, some spoons, and a big steak knife that looked like it might be made of silver. “I was just practicing, mostly.”

Ford glowered at him. “Now is  _ not _ the time! I can’t believe you-we need to take that stuff back now!”

“Um, guys…” Wendy said from above them.

“Hey, finders keepers!” Stan argued, ignoring her. He didn’t even want the stuff that much, beyond a vague idea of trying to sell it somewhere (except the knife; it was cool enough that he kind of wanted to keep it for if he needed to upgrade Shanklin’s weapons system), but he knew that he definitely didn’t want to give it back just because Ford ordered him to.

“This is not negotiable, Stanley! Besides-” a memory stirred- “haven’t you learned anything?! Stealing is what got us into this mess in the first place!”

“Hey! Guys!”

They blinked, and looked up at the bluebird.

“We should get out of here,  _ right now _ !”

Stan began to stuff the items back into his pockets; Ford grabbed his wrist, trying to force him to drop them onto the ground. They were so absorbed in their little tug-of-war that they didn’t realize they were surrounded until it was too late.

* * *

It turned out that the big pole thing the people had been dancing around a) had a giant pumpkin head attached to the top, b) was alive, and called Tyler, and c) was the leader of Pottsfield.

He stared down at them thoughtfully, one of the long ribbons rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

“So, um, let me git-git-git this straight,” he said at last. “You trespassed in our town, stepped on our produce, and looted our houses, and thought you could just git-git-git on outta here with no consequences?”

Oh, and he also seemed to have a funny verbal tic when he tried to say the word “get.”

Ford glared at Stan, who didn’t seem to notice; he was busy staring at the floor of the barn (where they’d been taken), shoulders hunched up around his ears. Wendy, who had also been grabbed, was struggling in her captor’s grasp and trying to peck ineffectively at his hands.

“We’re sorry,” Ford finally said. “We were just...trying to get help, because we’re lost, and, um, my brother has a problem with kleptomania.”

It wasn’t that far off from the truth, and he thought it sounded at least somewhat plausible.

“I see…” said Tyler. “Well, since you’re just kids, and this is your first offense, I’m gonna have to sentence you to…”

Both boys held their breath.

“...a few hours of manual labor.”

Ford blinked in surprise.

_ That wasn’t so bad _ .

Stan, however, fell to his knees with a horrified yell of “NOOOO!!!!”

* * *

Despite his brother’s protestations, they were forced, with balls and chains around their ankles (Ford was relatively certain that this violated a few laws about cruel and unusual punishment, but reminded himself that this was a different dimension and those laws probably didn’t apply here), to pick corn, use pitchforks to gather hay, and other various farm labors.

Eventually, though, they were on their final task: digging two big holes in the middle of the field.

Wendy had not been exempt from the punishment, despite her protests that she’d had nothing to do with it; somehow they’d had a mini ball and chain available that was a perfect fit for around her tiny bird leg, forcing her to hop grumpily around after them and involving herself as little as possible with the actual work.

Stan kept taking breaks from digging to pick at his manacle with the tip of his switchblade, trying to break the lock open.

For the umpteenth time Ford stomped over and slapped his wrist.

“You got us into this mess, so you have to take the punishment,” he scolded.

“Geez, you sound like Mom,” Stan sniped at him, putting the knife back in his pocket.

“I’m just trying to get it through your thick skull that sometimes actions have consequences.”

“ _ Meh meh  _ _ meh _ ,” Stan muttered back at him, picking up his shovel.

“...Why are they even making you guys dig these holes?” Wendy asked suddenly.

Ford blinked. That was...actually a legitimate question. They were too big to plant anything, except maybe trees, but why would they be planting trees in this particular spot? That didn’t seem quite-

“Whoa!”

Stan’s voice startled him into looking over at his brother-and the skull he was now holding in his hands, eyes wide. He was standing over the rest of the skeleton, which was still partly covered with dirt

Ford’s suddenly-nerveless hands dropped the shovel with a clatter. Because yeah, as cool as it was that his brother had dug up a real, whole skeleton, as he could see now, the implications-

It meant they were digging their own-

“Hey, Poindexter! Turn that frown upside down!” Stan said in a silly voice, manipulating the skull’s jaw so it looked like it was talking, and then turning the whole thing upside down in his hands.

“Stanley, this is serious!” Ford squeaked. “We-we need to get out of here, before they come back-”

As if on cue, they heard the sounds of people approaching the field, and made out Tyler’s giant head passing over the giant corn stalks.

“Stanley,” Ford whispered urgently, “pick the locks! Hurry!”

“Oh,  _ now _ you don’t want us to take the punishment?” Stan asked, folding his arms.

“I didn’t know they were gonna kill us! Please!”

That got Stan’s attention. He hurriedly climbed into Ford’s hole, managing to drag the ball and chain after him, and began fiddling with Ford’s manacle.

“Try ta stall them for me!” he whispered urgently, just as the crowd of pumpkin people arrived.

“Well, have the holes been dug?” asked Tyler, staring at Ford with eyes that looked blank, but were clearly filled with dark intelligence.

Ford’s mouth had gone dry with terror; he stammered, fumbling with his glasses.

“Tell them we need to clear out some extra rocks!” Stan whispered  _ sotto voce _ .

“Th-there’s a lot of rocks in here!” Ford squeaked, hating how his voice cracked. “W-we figured that you don’t like rocks, so-”

The people looked at each other a little quizzically, but one of them said, “No, I reckon we don’t really like rocks all that much.”

Various people murmured agreement, along with a few “Good thinking, kids” thrown in.

“So-” Ford’s confidence grew a little, never mind the way his hands were suddenly dripping with sweat, “we-we thought we ought to get rid of the rocks, before we can really call these holes finished-”

The ground under his feet shifted.

Ford assumed it was just Stan-until he looked down, and saw that oh holy Moses, there was a skeleton in his hole too, and it was rising up-of its own volition-shaking dirt out of its bones, and saying, “Hey, everyone, what’d I miss?”

“Blubs!” one of them called cheerfully, as the short, chubby skeleton climbed the rest of the way out of the hole and made its way to the crowd. “Here, we got your pumpkin all ready for you, life of the party!”

“Why, thank you!” Blubs took the offered jack-o-lantern and rammed it onto his head, before jumping into another pumpkin with holes that accommodated his limbs, and jamming an old-fashioned constable’s helmet on his head.

The other skeleton stood up, and groped around for its missing head for a second, before walking into the side of the hole Stan had dug twice.

“Blubs! Help! I’ve lost my head!!” its disembodied skull wailed plaintively.

Blubs rushed over and picked up the skull, holding it out. “Here ya go, Edwin darlin’.”

“Thanks,” it said happily-before promptly putting the skull on backwards and walking into the side of the hole again.

Ford was still trying to process that this level of awkward idiocy existed, when Stan shook his shoulder.

“Come on, while they’re distracted!” he hissed.

Ford realized that they’d all been set free from their chains, and quickly followed his brother out of the hole, heading back for the forest.

* * *

“...Well, that happened,” Stan said, once they were no longer in view.

“Those were skeletons,” Ford whispered. “A whole colony of sentient skeletons!”

“Yeah, in pumpkin costumes,” said Wendy. “I wonder what that’s all about.”

“Maybe they get cold,” Stan offered. He put Shanklin back on his shoulder; the possum began licking his ears, making him squirm and giggle.

Ford put his hands on his hips. “Stanley, I think we need a new rule. As long as we’re here,  _ no more stealing _ . Got it?”

Stan gave him a look. “That’s probably gonna bite you in the butt if we need to steal something later because  _ you _ think it’s a good idea.”

Ford gritted his teeth. He had a point…

“No more stealing things just for the sake of stealing them! Swear-I mean promise! I don’t want to get in any more trouble than we have to.”

“Fine…” Stan lifted one hand, scout style, even though neither of them had ever been a scout in his life. Ford, because he knew his brother all too well, grabbed his other arm and pulled it into view so he could make sure he wasn’t crossing any of his fingers.

“...So, where now?” Stan asked sulkily once he was released.

“I think we should let Wendy take us to see this Gideon guy,” Ford decided.

“What?!” Stan squawked.

“It’s the closest lead we have to a chance to get home!” Ford argued. “What other choice do we have?”

For a minute the twins glared at each other. Then Stan gave a sigh of defeat, and knelt, training his glare on Wendy, who was sitting innocently on the ground watching them.

“I’m watching you, bird,” he warned, pointing a finger at her. He just barely managed to move it before her beak lunged forward. “Nice try.”

That settled, Wendy flapped her way back up into Ford’s hair, and said, “We need to head to the river. It’s over to the northwest.”

And so they set off on the next stage of their journey.


	7. Breakup Blues, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Ford run into someone who might be an old friend of Wendy's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been a while since I added to this thing. But I got kind of sidetracked by other stuff, and to be honest I wasn't sure if anyone was still interested in the story. But I am determined to finish if it kills me. So ready or not, here it is.

“Walkin’ on a trail, doodly-doo, goin’ ta see some joker named Gideon, doobie doobie doo…”

Stan had started singing to himself out of sheer boredom, and kicking any big rocks that came in his path, trying to see how far he could make them go.

Ahead of him, Ford had been peppering Wendy with questions and theories ever since he first woke up. Why could she talk and have general sentience when as far as he knew, the other animals here didn’t? Did she have instincts that were more like a bluebird’s, or because she had human-like sentience were her instincts more human, or was he making too many assumptions based on his perceptions of instinct and the difference between humans and animals? Was she not answering any of his questions because she was under a spell of some kind that didn’t allow her to?

It was stuff that maybe Stan could’ve followed if he really got motivated enough, but just thinking about it gave him a headache. And from what he could tell, Wendy was even more uninterested; her responses varied between “I dunno,” “Uh-huh,” “Sure,” and pretending to go to sleep in an attempt to escape the barrage of curiosity. Stan could’ve told her that there  _ was _ no escape when Ford got like this, but he was too amused by the show (especially since it distracted him from the long, boring walk).

Finally, with a groan of annoyance, Wendy spread her wings and flapped her way out of Ford’s hair.

“You know what, I think I’m gonna fly ahead for a little bit.”

“But you haven’t-” Ford sighed when she zipped ahead into the trees.

“You really can’t take a hint, can you?” Stan asked.

“What?” Ford gave him an annoyed look over his shoulder.

“She doesn’t wanna answer your questions. That’s why she’s flying away, cuz she’s annoyed with you for not noticing.”

“Why not, though?”

Stan shrugged. “How should I know? Maybe she’s under a curse so she can’t talk about herself. Or it’s just stuff that’s painful for her ta talk about.”

His twin’s eyes widened with realization. “That’s...very insightful, Stanley.”

Stan glared a little. “You don’t need ta sound so surprised.”

And then both of them were startled by the loudest, most horrifying noise they’d ever heard.

It was like someone torturing an already-dying animal while screaming at the top of their lungs at the same time.

The boys briefly grabbed onto each other in terror; then, realizing what they were doing, let go just as quickly and tried to pretend nothing had happened. Even if the unnerving sound was still going on.

“...Wh-what is that?” Stan whispered. They both knew there was no way either of them could know what it was, but it was the sort of thing you asked in this situation.

Ford gulped; but then, with the resolute frown of someone who is incapable of leaving an interesting question unanswered, he gathered up his courage and headed in the direction the sound was coming from. Seconds later, Stan was right on his heels.

* * *

They had to make their way through the trees for about twenty feet in, until they discovered a large clearing. Sitting in the middle of it, on a tree stump, was something far more terrifying than either of them could ever have imagined:  _ a teenage boy!!!! _

He was dressed in an old-fashioned suit with a red design on the lapels that looked a bit like a heart that had been stitched in the middle. Everything else about his outfit was completely black: the jacket, the trousers, the shirt, the spats and shoes-even the straw boater hat placed at an angle on top of his thick black hair. And the horrible noise, they realized, was the sound of him playing a guitar, and doing something that he probably thought was melancholy singing.

“ _ WEN-DY!!!! _ I miss you so much, I’ll never move on, never ever move on! Oh,  _ WEN-DY!!!! _ It’s only three days since you’ve been gone, but  _ WEN-DY!!!! _ ”

Ford grimaced; his lyrics were even worse than his music.

Then his eyes widened in realization, and he whipped his head around, looking for their bluebird companion.

Surprisingly, she was nowhere to be found.

Stan clapped his hands over his ears with a groan of disgust, trying to block out the singing. “Ugh, this is a whole new level of pain!”

His possum chittered sympathetically, trying to use his tail to cover his own ears.

“Did you hear what he said?!” Ford whisper-yelled back (the guy was singing so loudly he probably wouldn’t have heard them even if he’d regular yelled, but you couldn’t be too careful).

“Yeah, something about missing someone, blah blah blah!”

“He’s singing about Wendy!”

Stan looked at him skeptically. “You think he’s singing about a bluebird?”

“How many other people around here do you think are named Wendy?” Ford straightened up, eyes bright with excitement. “This could be my chance to get some answers about her!”

And he stepped out into the clearing.

* * *

The teenager didn’t notice him; he seemed too intent on wailing along with his guitar.

Ford moved closer, and was just opening his mouth to call out to him-when he suddenly developed a faceful of blue feathers, startling him back into the trees.

“Ack!” Ford coughed, and spat, struggling to figure out what had happened.

It turned out that Wendy had happened. And she did not look happy.

“What are you doing?” she somehow managed to hiss through her beak, flapping furiously. “You are completely off the path!”

“Um, we’re trying to find out why that guy is singing about you.” Stan pointed to him. “You know him?”

Wendy turned around-and if she’d had skin, she probably would have blanched. “What? No! No, I’ve never seen him before in my life!”

_ Wow. That was an even worse lying than Ford’s. _

Stan smiled victoriously, and began sauntering forward. “Then why don’t we go say hi? I’m pretty sure he’d be interested in seeing a talking bluebird with the same name as whoever he’s singing about-”

“No!”

Both boys stared at her accusingly.

At last she gave a defeated sigh.

“Okay, yeah, I know him. His name’s Robbie, and we used to date. But we broke up ages ago, and it’ll be awkward, especially if he sees me like this and realizes who I am. So can we just go before-”

Unfortunately, none of them had noticed that the music had stopped. Or that Robbie was now able to hear the sound of their voices in the trees. But all of them nearly jumped out of their skin when they heard him call out, “Who’s there?”


	8. Breakup Blues, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I am so, so sorry to anyone who might actually be interested in this story and wanting me to continue that I am taking so long to do so. It just feels like not many people are reading this...and I've also been a little sidetracked with my Flipside AU. But rest assured, I'm not giving up on this story. Nuh-uh.

Before they could even think about running, Robbie was there, staring down at them. His pale face scrunched up in annoyance.

“Ugh. Scram, kids, I’m busy tryin’ to write a song for my ex-girlfriend so she’ll come back to me!”

To Ford’s horror, Stan snickered. “Yeah.  _ Tryin’ _ .”

“What was that?!” the older boy demanded, glaring.

“Oh, nothin’, just sayin’ that you can’t sing ta save your life.” Stan smirked up at him, appearing completely oblivious to the fact that Robbie was twice his size. Of course, he was also way skinny, especially compared to some of their normal opponents, and didn’t look like he had as much experience with fighting as Stan did, but still.

It didn’t help that Ford could feel Wendy struggling not to laugh on his shoulder.

“Why, I oughta-” Robbie began, raising his fist. Ford gasped, and prepared to run for it. But Stan just stood there, staring up at the older boy with challenging eyes, arms folded.

After a second, Robbie grumbled and lowered his arm, all the fight draining out of him.

“Meh, you’re not even worth it! I’m a guitar player, I gotta save my hands!” And he flopped down with his back against a tree, and picked up the guitar again with a small sigh.

Stan turned to the other two with a “yeah, I just made him back down” smirk on his face...that evaporated under Ford’s disapproving glare.

“What?”

He looked back over at Robbie-and this time he finally seemed to see what his brother did. Namely that the teen’s shoulders were drooping as he plucked despondently at his guitar strings, and his eyebrows were drawn together in the most pitifully unhappy expression imaginable.

Stan's eyes saddened.

* * *

“...Okay, let’s get out of here while he’s busy moping,” Wendy whispered in Ford’s ear. Just as Stan walked back over to Robbie.

“Hey, hey! What’s he doing?!” the bluebird demanded, hopping in agitation.

But Ford didn’t need to answer, which was just as well, because he was as confused as she was. As they watched, Stan sat down next to him, and asked in a voice that was softer than usual, “You must’ve really liked her, huh?”

“What do you know about it?” Robbie demanded, glaring at him out of the corner of his eye.

Stan shrugged. “Not much. But I know what it’s like ta want someone ta like you and they don’t.”

The defensiveness went out of Robbie as quickly as it had come, and he sighed.

“Yeah, I liked her a lot. She’s not scared of anything, not even the Beast! She goes out in the woods all the time to climb trees, and she’s tougher than every other boy in town, which is pretty hot.” For a second his face relaxed into a wistful smile...before he frowned again. “And then she broke up with me, and then she and her whole family just up and disappeared, and I don’t know why!”

Ford glanced down at Wendy- and saw that her expression had changed from its previous irritation to quite visible sadness.

_ That probably means she’s under a curse of some kind-I doubt that she became a bluebird by choice. I wonder if she offended some kind of magical being, maybe? _

* * *

“That’s rough, man,” Stan said, pulling up a blade of grass and shredding it between his fingers. “Why’d she break up with you?”

Robbie shrugged. “She got mad about a few things I did, I guess.”

The irritation returned to Wendy’s face.

“A few things?!” she hissed. “You kept lying to me, and standing me up and then not apologizing for it! You were the most irresponsible, jealous-!”

“Ssh!” Ford hurriedly turned away, trying to shush the outraged bluebird.

The commotion drew the attention of the other boys, who looked over at them in surprise.

“What’s that?” asked Robbie, looking at Ford’s shoulder.

“That’s a bluebird we found,” Stan told him. “She is definitely not sentient.”

It wasn’t his best lie ever, but Robbie didn’t seem to notice it. He was busy examining Wendy with interest, appearing completely unaware that he was looking at his ex-girlfriend.

Wendy, who by now had regained her composure somewhat, tilted her head at him. “Tweet, tweet.”

Robbie blinked. “Did that bird just say ‘tweet, tweet’?”

“Of course not!” Ford said hurriedly, putting his hand up in front of her face. “A bird’s brain isn’t big enough for cognizant speech-ow!”

He nursed his sore finger, and glowered at Wendy.

Robbie frowned. “You guys are kinda weird.”

“We take that as a compliment!” Stan said defiantly.

Then, off in the distance, a voice called, “Oh, Robbie! Lunchtime!”

Robbie stood up, retrieving his guitar. “...Mom usually has plenty of food ready, if you guys wanna come. I guess.”

Ford and Wendy both blinked in surprise-but Stan leaped to his feet. “That sounds great! Come on, guys!”

Wendy made a noise of protest, but it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan can occasionally be a bit of a jerk, but he's not cruel. He's just used to seeing all older kids as jerks who want to pick on him and his brother.  
Also, he hasn't been hardened and jaded by being a crusty old man yet, so he has an easier time being openly compassionate.


	9. Breakup Blues, part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sheepish laughter*...  
Yeah, I know how long it's been since I added to this.  
But since we're back in October, which is the perfect season for "Over the Garden Wall" shenanigans, I'm getting back to work on it, and I'm gonna finish it if it kills me.

Robbie’s house looked like just the kind of place where they’d expect him to grow up: an ominous-looking black cottage with a sign in front: _ Valentino Funeral Parlor-If you were dead, you’d be home by now! _

“O-kay, that explains a lot,” Stan murmured as they passed the rows of tombstones on either side of the path.

“Yeah, my p-my mom’s an undertaker,” the teen said, kicking a rock with the toe of his shoe.

“...You don’t sound as thrilled about it as I thought you would be.”

Robbie let out a long, dramatic sigh. “She’s got a really weird attitude about her job. You’ll see.”

He pushed open the door with one hand, wiping his feet on the mat (which had “Valentino” written on it; Ford suspected it was the family’s surname) as he stepped over the threshold, and the two boys followed him-only to be accosted by a frighteningly perky-looking woman with bright red hair and a smile that was just a little too wide-who was also carrying a long, sharp-looking fork in one hand.

“Well, happy day!” she chirped, “I didn’t know Robbie was bringing friends home for lunch!”  
  


Ford took an unconscious step back.

“Um-”

“They’re not friends!” Robbie grumbled, “I just met them and thought they might be hungry or whatever.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, honey!” She lifted his hat with the tip of the fork, allowing her hand to sneak in and ruffle his hair.

“Mo-om!” Robbie scrambled away as quickly as possible, with the type of glower used by angsty teenagers everywhere in the circumstance of being forced to allow their parents to be in the presence of their peers.

His mom laughed brightly, and looked back at Stan and Ford. “Robbie says I am way too cheerful to be a funeral director; he just doesn’t understand the importance of seeing the joy in life when you’re surrounded by death!”

“...Yeah.” Stan managed to smile. “So what’s for lunch?”

Lunch turned out to be spaghetti and meatballs shaped to look like smiley faces.

“We also have some mashed potatoes if you boys want, but unfortunately there’s no gravy,” Mrs. Valentino said in an apologetic tone. Then, more brightly, “We do have some molasses, though!”

“What kind o’ weird-ow!” Stan leaned down and rubbed his throbbing shin, as Ford pulled his foot back and said more diplomatically, “No, thank you.”

“Suit yourselves!” At which point she dished out some potatoes for herself, along with a generous dollop of molasses.

The group of children glanced at each other. Robbie seemed somewhat comforted by the twins being as weirded out by his mother’s behavior as he was. Despite that, they were quite hungry, and so they started eating.

Whenever the Valentinos weren’t paying attention, Ford would feed Wendy little bits of noodle. He didn’t think it was that healthy for bluebirds, but it had to be better than nothing. She didn’t complain, just lightly pecked them off his fingers.

At last Stan cleared his throat. “So. It’s just you two?”

“Oh yes!” Mrs. Valentino chirped, smiling (somehow) even more widely. “Robbie’s father left a week ago without any kind of explanation, breaking my heart into a hundred pieces in the process, but we’re both used to it by now! Isn’t that right, Robbie?”

Her son dropped his fork with a clatter, and then abruptly got up and stomped out of the room. Ford heard Wendy gasp a little, and her wings did an agitated flutter against his hair.

“Dude,” she whispered, “...that actually explains a lot. I mean, Robbie’s been gloomy ever since he hit puberty, but-”

“...Is someone talking?” Mrs. Valentino tilted her head in confusion.

“No! I don’t hear anything!” Ford felt his cheeks reddening a little at the lie, but she didn’t seem to notice; she just went right back to her dramatic-yet-frighteningly-cheerful monologuing.

“If only he were here to protect us from the undead creature that’s been prowling around the neighborhood…”

Stan sat up straight. “Wait, what?”

Mrs. Valentino scooped up a generous forkful of mashed potatoes, and just stared at it for a second instead of eating it. “Oh, Robbie didn’t tell you? There’s an undead creature that’s been prowling around the neighborhood every night.”

The boys looked at each other, then back at the woman. “...As in a skeleton?” Stan finally asked. “We ran into a bunch of those in a town farther down the-”

He was interrupted by her giggling.

“Oh, no no no! It’s still got flesh on its bones. It’s just decaying, rotting flesh, combined with a craving for our brains!” For the first time in this whole peculiar afternoon she stopped smiling, and frowned in apparent concern for a second...before the smile returned with a vengeance. “It’s a shame he won’t let us bury him again! Business hasn’t been too good lately!”

Ford decided that he had lost his appetite.

...He was too intrigued by the idea of there being a zombie available to study.

* * *

Robbie’s room, when the twins excused themselves from the table, was at the end of a long hallway. On one side were several large paintings of Robbie, showing him as a somewhat cheerful-looking kid...then an awkward pimple-faced teenager...and finally the scowling presence they had met this morning.

“Yeesh,” Stan muttered, “hope that’s not gonna happen to us when we’re teenagers.”

“Trust me, it will,” Wendy said. “Maybe not quite to that extent, but it will.”

“...Good to know we’ve got so much to look forward to.” Stan shoved his hands into his pockets as Ford knocked on the door to Robbie’s room (obvious due to the “KEEP OUT” sign in black and yellow).

“Go away, Mom!” the teen’s voice snarled from the other side.

“It’s us!” Ford called back.

There was a moment of silence from the other side; at last Stan got tired of waiting and just opened the door.

Robbie was lying curled up on his bed, with his jacket pulled over his face; he grumbled something incoherent when they came inside.

The room, Ford noticed, was mostly decorated in black and various shades of dark red, with various horror novels lying scattered around and a painting on the wall that he identified as a copy of Goya’s _ Saturn Devouring his Son _.

He questioned whether undertaking really was a suitable profession in which to raise a family.

“...So, you got a zombie on the loose,” Stan said at last.

“Yeah. Probably the only good thing that’s happened to me all year,” Robbie muttered. “I keep hoping someday Mom’ll let him in so he can put me out of my misery.”

Had his attitude been just about Wendy breaking up with him, Ford would have felt that this reaction was a little extreme.

But, combined with the tragic disappearance of his father, it was...still extreme, but gave his depression somewhat more justification, as he was probably suffering some severe abandonment issues.

Judging from Stan’s expression, he was thinking more or less the same thing.

“...You twerps can stay the night, or whatever,” Robbie muttered. “Mom probably won’t care. Just grab some spare blankets from the cupboard down the hall.”

“Uh-you sure-” Ford began, but was forced to stop by Stan elbowing him in the ribs.

“Thanks!” his twin said with a bright smile.

Robbie burrowed under his blankets with another muffled “Whatever.”

* * *

Sure enough, Mrs. Valentino seemed to have no problem with the two of them making up a bed on her sofa that night, with one of them at each end and Wendy perching on the back.

However, both boys were too excited to sleep; instead they sat and strained their ears, staring at the door and windows with interest.

“Man, you guys are weird kids,” Wendy said, puffing out her chest feathers. “I thought you’d be at least a little scared if a zombie was supposed to show up.”

“We’ve seen way worse stuff,” Stan said without taking his eyes off the door. “Like that town full of skeletons, or the Jersey Devil.”

The bluebird blinked. “Wait. Really?”

“Yeah, we were actually hunting for it before-” he glanced at Ford uncomfortably- “before we wound up here.”

A muscle in Ford’s cheek twitched, but before he could speak whatever was on his mind he sat up straight. “Do you hear something?”

Stan and Wendy tilted their heads, listening.

Sure enough, there was a noise coming from the other side of the front door: a dark, chilling, groaning noise that sent chills running up and down the boys’ arms and made them tighten their hands in the blankets. They looked at each other uneasily, but then Ford’s jaw clenched in resolve, before he slipped out from under the covers and began creeping towards the window right next to the door. Stan was at his side within seconds, only stopping to slip his brass knuckles onto his hands.

They saw that a dark shape was standing on the threshold; it was hard to make out in the scanty moonlight, but they could hear it groaning as it pawed at the doorknob.

And then-

Maybe it was Ford’s imagination, but it almost sounded like the zombie was muttering a name.

_ “Jaaaan...Jaaaaannnn…” _

“Huh,” Stan whispered. “I thought zombies were just supposed ta be capable of saying ‘Braaaainssss!’ over ‘n over.”

“Well, maybe they’re different here, or people in general have created misconceptions about them,” Ford whispered back. “After all, the original type of zombies from Haitian culture-”

A hand slammed against the window, and suddenly they were staring right into a pair of bloodshot, undead eyes in a horrifying, deformed face.

“AAAAAUUUUGGGGGGHHHH!!!!!!”

The boys leaped back, nearly tripping over each other’s feet. A second later, though, Stan regained his composure enough to shove Ford behind him, while he lifted his fists like a boxer.

“Back off, ya undead jerk!” he snarled. “I don’t wanna haveta use these!”

The zombie blinked a few times, and then started pounding its fists on the glass. It uttered another incoherent groaning noise.

“Stanley, m-maybe we should go get Mrs. Valentino,” Ford stammered.

“No time! He’s already breaking through!”

Sure enough, with an almighty _ CRASH _ the window suddenly smashed open, and the zombie stuck his head inside.

In desperation, Ford whirled, looking for something to throw.

His eyes landed on a jug of water which was sitting nearby, probably for watering the plants. In one swift movement he snatched it up, lunged forward to throw it, lunged farther than he meant to because his socks slipped on the tiled floor, and lost his grip on the jug.

Which hurtled forward, splashing its contents all over the zombie’s face.

Stan barely managed to catch his brother to save him from smashing his face into the floor; as he looked back up, he let out another inadvertent scream of fright.

The zombie’s face was melting!

Large clumps of flesh were falling off, splatting on the floor in horrifying blobs, dripping in a nasty-looking goo! It was like the Wicked Witch of the West, except more scary!

There was the sound of footsteps behind them, and then the lamp was turned on, flooding the hallway with light. Mrs. Valentino and Robbie were standing there, eyes wide and faces frozen as they stared at the zombie.

Before either boy could speak, though, Mrs. Valentino asked, “...Greg? Is that _ you _?”

“...Howdy, Jan,” said a cheerful, somewhat-less-raspy voice; the boys whirled their heads around, and saw that the “zombie” was now a dripping wet, mild-faced man who looked quite a bit like Robbie. “Would one of you kindly help me get out of this window? I think I’m a little stuck.”

“Where have you _ been _?!” Mrs. Valentino demanded of her husband once he was inside and had gotten cleaned up. He’d been covered in some kind of hideous-looking grayish-green muck that coated him from head to toe, which was heavily caked around his legs and arms and made it hard for him to move.

“Well, I was taking a shortcut to another town to put up advertisements for our business, when I got lost in a swamp!” For someone who’d been through such a frightening situation, Mr. Valentino was remarkably chipper about it. “I ended up falling into some kind of sinkhole thing and got covered in the stuff! And every time I tried to get help, people would scream and run away, so I couldn’t get it off! It got so bad I could only come out at night, and I kept calling for you to let me in, but I guess you couldn’t hear me or something!”

Mrs. Valentino giggled, and ruffled his hair. “We thought one of our guests in the cemetery had broken loose and was after our brains, silly man!”

The two of them leaned on each other and laughed merrily.

Stan and Ford looked at each other.

“...These guys creep me out more than the skeletons,” Stan whispered.

Ford gave him a scolding look for saying that in front of them...but he kind of had to agree.

* * *

The next day, after a warm breakfast, the boys and their bluebird got ready to go on their way. Robbie, surprisingly, volunteered to walk them to the road; having his father back seemed to have taken at least a little bit of the gloominess off his shoulders-replaced by irritation at having twice the number of embarrassing parents again, but oh well.

“You guys know where you’re going?” he asked as they walked; he absentmindedly strummed his guitar, playing something that didn’t sound half-bad as long as he wasn’t singing.

“Yes, we’re looking for Gideon of the Pasture,” Ford said.

“Huh. Never heard of him.”

As they reached the road, Robbie started to turn back towards home...but then paused.

“Hey…” He dug a self-conscious toe in the dirt for a second, “...thanks. We probably wouldn’t’ve found out that the zombie was actually Dad if you hadn’t been there.”

Stan shrugged. “Eh, you might’ve figured it out sooner or later.”

“Still though.” Robbie’s face did something weird; it took Stan a moment to realize that he was actually _ smiling _ at them. As disconcerting as it was, he and Ford just smiled back.

“Take care of yourselves, dorks.” He turned back towards home-but then paused.

“Y’know what, I think I’m gonna go see how Tambry’s doing,” he muttered. He slung the guitar over his back, and then set off to the right of his house. His step was a great deal lighter than his normal slouch.

“Huh. Guess we inadvertently restored his sense of optimism or whatever,” Stan said with a little shrug.

“I didn’t think that was even possible,” Ford agreed.

Then both of them were startled by Wendy’s angry splutter.

“Tambry? What the heck?! Just yesterday he was still pining over me, and now he’s gonna go off and see _ Tambry _?!”

“What do you care?” Stan asked in bewilderment. “You don’t wanna date him, do you?”

“No, but-ugh!” She leaped out of Ford’s curls and went flying off down the road in a huff.

The boys looked at each other.

“...I don’t understand girls,” Stan said.

“Me neither.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goths weren't really a subculture until the 1980s, so I'm making Robbie as close to one as I feel like I can get away with.
> 
> I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but I just wanna get through this thing so I can get to the really good stuff, so I'm sending it out anyway.


End file.
